The Hearts We Hold
by ofLadyTauriel
Summary: "Closed eyes, heart not beating, but a living love." - Avis Corea


**Author's Notes: This is an idea I had the day of watching _The Sign of Three_, before _His Last Vow_ came out, so _His Last Vow_ does not happen in this universe. I have only gotten around to writing it now. Thanks to Tawni for beta-ing my work!**

Sherlock was running.

He knew, quite obviously, and not in the back of his mind, that taking a cab was the preferable option to running across half of London, but he could not shake himself of the feeling that only his own feet, driven by his fear and determination, would be enough to get him to his destination in time. It was all so obvious, so hellishly coy and almost reprimanding, that Sherlock wanted to kick himself for being such a bloody idiot and laugh in a self-deprecating manner, if only he weren't dashing with barely a rare gasp and only his saved internal map - falsely assumed by some to be a naturally keen sense of direction - to guide him.

Sherlock had been studying Magnussen from the moment he had learned of his existence, and his blood ran cold even with the emotional detachment with which he solved the regular case. However, Sherlock allowed himself room to slide, because this was not like a regular case in the least. This case... This case had _John_.

Sherlock must have been steadily losing his tact, as the obvious slipped from him even when it was handed to him on a silver plate.

Sherlock had known Mary was a liar from the moment he became acquainted with the new individual in John's life, and it came to no surprise that she was a dangerous persona, covered beneath a loving, understanding façade. However, he took her unspoken claim that she loved John Watson for granted. He never took into account the likeliness of her presence become an actual danger to John's life.

Charles Augustus Magnussen, as evident by the message from CAM at the wedding and Mary's startling reaction, did not have the direct need to hurt Mary. Sherlock new, from observing the power hungry strife between his brother and the man, that he needed a chain of dependency, from Mary's past to Mary to John to Sherlock to Mycroft, to get to the latter. However, staring in the face of the obvious that Sherlock saw, he did not even stop to observe.

Mary had enemies that wanted her life to fall into peril - not through death, but through unending pain that that isolation would be able cause her. The existence of the shadows of her past were the reason why Magnussen now possessed the information to blackmail her - he knew which of her demons to feed, even if he had no personal intent.

Sherlock, caught up in watching Magnussen observe, calculate pressure points, and formulate a chain of people whose buttons he would need to more than push to finally crack the resolve of Mycroft and the British government, failed to take the danger of Mary's past into account. He had thought about it, of course: John as Mary's safety, her anchor to the civilians' world, a place to propel the loving, even the selfish loving, for which she never had the opportunity during her past of being an assassin.

John loved her, wanted her in his life, the lack of knowledge of her identity not hurting him, and Sherlock thought it would be enough.

Sherlock had turned a blind eye, even where it was most important: where John and his family was at stake. Now, as he was racing from the Buckingham Palace, where he had just finished speaking to Mycroft about the extent to which Magnussen would go to bring his brother down, acknowledging the ever-present facts. Mary had not complied, had not went out of her way to contact Magnussen after the wedding, had refused to be intimidated by him thrusting the shadows of her past - her pressure point - into the light. Sherlock knew, because he had hired his gang of teenagers to monitor them, and he had bugged the flat - how could he not?

But Mary hadn't complied, period. Her love for John has won over the need to protect herself. It was commendable, but punishable in the eyes of someone like Magnussen. A warning for him could translate to a painful death of someone close to her.

So Sherlock kept running, looking out for a cab to hail to reach the family that he vowed to protect.

Mary, heavily pregnant with an unborn child of five months, had difficulties enjoying even a stroll through their part of London with John. She was standing outside their shared flat, enjoying the late afternoon air, waiting for John to fetch the jacket he forgot from inside.

John. It wasn't right, to keep her secrets from him, but her primary self-defence mechanisms prevented her from being able to tell him the truth of her past. It was a dark time that she regretted, couldn't even bring herself to dwell after the last decade of having done so. However, she had placed her fate in Magnussen's hands when she refused to react to his threats - meaningful, significant threats - at her wedding several months ago. Now, the past that she had hoped would never break her apart from her seemingly bright future and ability to change and recreate herself, could at any moment come back to haunt her. Magnussen could appear at the doorstep of their flat at any moment, and John would learn the truth. It made her constantly wary, and it added to the stress of being a hormonal, pregnant woman.

She was startled out of her reverie, when a tall, familiar figure, usually enwrapped in a thick coat and scarf with today being an exception, raced towards her from the cab that stopped a few meters down the street.

"Mary!" came Sherlock's desperate cry. The look in his eyes was desperate, his hair sweaty and ruffled, and she immediately knew that something was amiss. Years of training as an assassin made her recognise the signs of danger, given away by the lines of distress sketched across his face, but she knew that she was in no position to spring into action. With child and without ammunition or even knowledge of the situation, she was at her most vulnerable. She swore under her breath, gathering her strength to face whatever it was that struck such panic within the usually unruffled man.

"Sherlock, what is it?" she made out, but was unable to hear herself over the sound of the gunshot.

Her whole body froze. Mary willed her foot to move forward to catch the lanky body and hold the flailing limbs, but her legs would not comply. There was pounding in her ears, vigorous pounding that knocked the breath out of her own chest, and yet she was almost able to feel, to the anatomical level, the movement of we blood stream slowly die away, until only an abrupt and choking fear replaced it.

"Sherlock!" she whispered hoarsely, as he fell into her arms.

A tea cup fell onto the floor of Mycroft's office, breaking and spilling, leaving a stain. It was fragile. More fragile than human life itself.

A phone call. A ring, two, three, and nothing.

Mycroft's face fell onto his upturned hands, supported by his elbows digging into the face of his desk. He took a deep breath, but the sigh never came. The painful constriction of his throat captured it, lodging it there, instead pushing out only hoarse sounds that vaguely reminded him of broken hearts. But what did he know about heartbreak?

His signal to his own sniper had been too late. He had scanned the premises around the flat of the Watson family, within considerable distance, but neither him nor his associates were able to spot Magnussen's sniper until... Until-

Until he shot first.

He lifted his face from his palms, and his long fingertips were wet with the tears that were finally flowing. The last time he had cried, it was in their adolescence at Sherlock's bedside, when his younger brother almost bled out to death from a stab one inflicted by a murderer he had been so carelessly perusing. Sherlock had woken up after three days of lying in a coma to find his thinner fingers clasped in Mycroft's larger ones and tears on the latter's face. Sherlock had told him to not cry over him as to prevent revealing his cold façade, and Mycroft could only nod and grip his little brother's hand even harder.

Sherlock had promised to not get hurt, and Mycroft had promised not to cry. Now, they both broke their promises.

After hearing the shot, John forced himself to relax, recognising the signs of panic within his system and and working to keep them in check. The shot was single, not an array of repeatedly fired bullets, signifying that the job, likely an intentional assassination of an individual, was already done. Mary had no reason to be the victim, and she wouldn't come to harm from harmless fire. Nevertheless, he fled the flat as fast as he could, needing to assure himself that all was alright.

Nothing could have been neither more wrong, nor more prepared him for the heart-constricting sight in front of him. John could not move forward from the door; he could not make use of his instincts to run forward and help the body of the fallen man, as his blood soaked to a pool at Mary's knees. John opened his mouth, but the heavy something lodged in his throat made it painful to attempt to speak. The universe shifted, and finally he achieved the first step forward, which transformed into a trip, a stumble, a fall. The world became blurry around the edges, and his dying focus lingered figures a foot away from where he cowered on his knees, almost slumped to the ground from pain of the relentless throbbing of his chest.

Mary was on her knees, holding a fallen Sherlock to her chest, rocking back and forth, and sobbing.

"Mary, Mary," Sherlock was urging her, "I had been observing Magnussen, and I know what he thought. He knew that John was my pressure point, and that you were his. However, your past is your pressure point, but not-" his breath hitched, and John's heart stopped, "-your only one. Your _child_. I... I couldn't let any... Any harm come to your child."

John's throaty breath hitched with a threatening spill of tears, as he noted the height difference between Mary and Sherlock in his mind. He was taller, his chest position higher than the side of her stomach, but from an angle at which a likely sniper had shot, it was possible that Sherlock had been in just the position to shield Mary with her body.

John tried to stand, dragging his feet behind him as he stumbled the last few feet towards Sherlock. Leaning over him, he tried to force his hands to cooperate, as he fumbled with the buttons of his coat. He felt like was dragging his arms through molasses, unable to reach the wound and stop the thick blood that seeped out of it like a rushing river. John looked to Mary, instead, attempting to glare and convey the need for her to help him. She cringed under gaze: John knew he was a pitying sight, unable to feel anger in the wake of the heavy sadness. However, she complied, urgently pulling out her mobile and dialling the hospital.

John looked down upon Sherlock, his flatmate, his colleague, his friend, his _best_ friend, his anchor, one of the two people he loved most in this world, his _everything_ -

And saw two hazy eyes, however much unfocused, still baring intently into his.

"John," croaked Sherlock, seeing him from the corner of his eyes. "Magnussen, an evil, devious, and conniving man - I was close to catching him, believe me -, thought that only you were my pressure point, and that I would protect only you. That I wouldn't get in the way of his plan of hurting Mary, that I wouldn't _care_."

John wanted to ask who the hell Magnussen, and how he dared laying a finger on the people important to him; why someone would hurt Mary; why Sherlock was bleeding from a wound that undeniably pierced his left lung because of it. He opened his mouth, but the words didn't come. He took a step forward, but his legs would not cooperate. His bad leg throbbed more than usual, and his blood pulsed in his ears. _No, not Sherlock,_ he willed God, the Heavens, the Powers That Be, anyone who would listen. _Not again._ The first time was the ground cracking underneath his feet, pulling him into a darkness, where the tempting, intangible light was only seen from far away. The second would be Heaven plummeting around him, all hope lost.

"No, Sherlock, no, stop talking," Mary told him, aiming for but failing at calm. "I called the hospital, and they're on their way, Sherlock. John! John... John will help you, we're getting you help, we'll fix you, we'll-"

"As a doctor, John will confirm that I only have minutes. _Listen_ to me, Mary!" Sherlock insisted. "I need you to know that your family -" a cough, "- your whole family is what mattered everything to me. More important-" raggedy breath, "-than the Work. My last vow was -"

The use of past tense shook John to life. His vow to protect John's family at all costs couldn't possibly be his last - John would simply not let that happen.

"Not your last, Sherlock," John told him, taking him by the scruff and shaking him. "Sherlock, I'm not letting your die on me again, after everything I went through."

Sherlock's eyes were rolling back into his head, and his eyelids were drooping, but even then he managed a smile. John's heart pulsed with the power of a giant blue star - one that Sherlock hadn't even known to exist before John had told him, John's brain supplied cruelly and uselessly -, ready to explode with the booming power of a supernova. _He never knew,_ John thought. _I never told him; I never would have told him. I -_

"With all due respect to your marriage, Mary, I think I have a right to tell your husband that..." he took a breath, "to tell John that I-"

John would have feel the stream of tears that began to steadily flow from his eyes, past his cheeks and chin, and down his neck, were his whole body not eerily numb. He clutched Sherlock to his chest, his forehead falling onto his shoulder.

"Don't you dare say a word, Sherlock," John murmured. "Save your strength." _Save your strength for me, so I can save it to save myself. The universe is not my own without you._

"Yes, John, alright," Sherlock whispered on what seemed like a dying breath. "I will, John, I will. Anything for you, anything."

A shudder ran through Sherlock's body, and then completely stopped. John could not feel the slow ticking of Sherlock's heart come to a halt, like a late clock finally dying, but he did not need to. Under his fingertips he felt the weak flutter of Sherlock's weakening pulse die away, like a bird with broken wings finally giving up on flying and plummeting to the ground. John's sobs racked through his body, lungs convulsing. He spoke no more, ignoring Mary's soothing hands on his shoulders. He did not pull away with the arrival of the curious crowd around him, instead listened to the mocking bustle of the ongoing life in London's busy streets.


End file.
